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I don’t feel any of those things. But I can fake it for one night, right? Maybe? Possibly? I hope?

“How often does he do this?” I blurt suddenly.

Säsha’s hands pause on my shoulder strap. “Pardon?”

“Mr. Lazarev. How often does he send women here to pick out dresses?”

I sound a little bit more than a little bit rude, but I need to know the answer to a question that’s been bothering me:Am I just a low-rent Natasha?

Säsha’s smile falters. It’s brief, scarcely detectable, but I catch it in the mirror. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my clients’ private business,” she says carefully.

With her eyes, she adds,Don’t you dare ask a follow-up question.

I hold her gaze in the mirror. A little staring contest to see if she’ll stand her ground.

She looks away first.

“The dress fits perfectly,” she declares, switching back to business. “Next: shoes, accessories, and undergarments. Mr. Lazarev mentioned?—”

“Oh, fucksticks!”

Säsha and I both look over at the settee in alarm. Jillian has leaped to her feet and is staring bug-eyed at her phone. I think she might even be drooling a little bit?

“Uh, Jill…?” I ask. “Everything alright?”

She’s still too busy cursing up a storm to answer right away. As I watch, she throws her jacket on, whips her scarf around her face, and scrambles to chug the last of the champagne she’s been nursing. “Shit, shit, shit!”

I reach out to touch her shoulder. “Hey. Hon. What’s wrong?”

She looks at me, and I know right away it’s a work thing. That fevered shine in her eyes is a telltale giveaway. “A source just texted. For the big story I’ve been working on.” She shoves her phone in her purse. “I gotta go. Like,now.”

“Wait, Jill?—”

“I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll call you tonight, okay? You don’t need me anyway. You look amazing. I’d smash. Several times. And then buy you breakfast the next morning. The dress is perfect, you’re perfect, I love you, goodbye!”

And then she’s gone. The curtain swishes behind her and I’m alone with Säsha and a three-way mirror that shows every viewpoint of my rising panic.

Säsha clears her throat. “Right. Well. As I was saying… Mr. Lazarev mentioned that foundation garments might be necessary. Given the cut of the dress.”

I look at my reflection to take stock of all the various angles of attack we’re working with here. The deep neckline. The open back. The slit that goes up to my hip bone.

She’s not wrong. My Duane Reade underwear is not going to cut it.

“I have some options prepared,” Säsha continues. She disappears through the side door and returns with a polished silver tray. On it are several scraps of fabric that I think are supposed to be underwear. I have to squint to examine them, because they’re practically invisible.

Some have straps. Most don’t. A few appear to be held together by nothing prayer and good intentions. I’d say one even hasbadintentions, by the looks of it.

My face is on fire. “I don’t usually…”

“Of course.” She sets the tray on the settee. “Would you like to try a few options? To see what works best with the dress?”

I want to say no. I want to grab my mom jeans and flee far away from these torture devices.

But Säsha seems to think “no” is not even remotely an option. As a matter of fact, she’s already handing me the first piece and politely. but firmly herding me behind the—you guessed it—all-white privacy screen that popped up when I wasn’t looking.

With a defeated sigh, I realize I’m trapped. Easier to go with the flow than swim against it, I suppose.

I take off the dress carefully and hang it up.